e alcove
window, and peered through the curtains into the black night beyond. A
great surge of regret swept over him that shook the strong man with
pain pitiful to see. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass;
and the contrast, so strong, to the hope with which he had looked out
thus at the gray dawn, sickened him with its weight. There was a boom
in his ears, as of the distant surf; and his brain mechanically groped
after a lost refrain, finding only the fragment: "To lose it all!
_lose it all!_"

But heart-sickness, like sea-sickness, is never mortal, and it has the
inestimable call over the latter of being far less tenacious. And Van
Morris was mentally as healthy as he was physically sound. He made a
strong effort of a strong will; and turned to face his friend and
his--fate. In his hand he held a wilted camellia bud and a crushed
cactus flower.

Moving quickly to the fire, he tossed them on the glowing coals;
watching as they curled, shrivelled, and disappeared in the heat's
maw. Then he moved quietly to the window and looked into the night
once more.

Wholly wrapped up in his new-found joy, Andy Browne saw nothing odd in
his friend's manner or actions. He moved softly about the room, and
once more hummed, "_Il segreto per esser felice_;" very low and very
tenderly this time.

Suddenly the rustle of silk again sounded on Morris's ear.

He turned quickly, and looked long, but steadily, into the beautiful
face. It was very quiet and gentle; glorified by the deeper content in
the eyes and the modest flush upon the cheek. His face, too, was very
quiet; but it was pale and grave. His manner was gentle; but he
retained the little hand Blanche held out to him, in fingers that were
steadier than her own.

"I reminded you last night," he said, very gravely, "how long we had
been friends, Blanche. It is meet, then, that I should be the first to
wish you that perfect happiness which only a pure girl's heart may
know."

Then, without a pause, he turned to Andy, and placed the little Russia
case in his hand. As it opened, the eye of a dazzling solitaire
flashed from its satin pillow.

"Andy, old friend," he added, "Rose Wood told you only the truth. I
_had_ set my heart on Blanche's happiness; and only this morning I got
that for her engagement ring. Put it on her finger with the feeling
that Van Morris loves you both--better than a nature like Rose Wood's
can ever comprehend."

T. C. De Leon.

FROM